


fools in love, life, death

by robin_hoods



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Denial of Feelings, Experimental Style, Hand Jobs, M/M, Naked Cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-09
Updated: 2013-11-09
Packaged: 2018-01-01 00:06:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1037985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robin_hoods/pseuds/robin_hoods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But Robb is warm, his lips are soft, his words are sweet – what Robb wants is what he gives, and he gives plenty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fools in love, life, death

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gemfyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gemfyre/gifts).



> Because I promised I'd write you a ficlet if you finished your application -- tada!
> 
> (tbh I have no idea what this is even supposed to be. uh. yeah.)

Robb Stark is beyond help, Theon thinks to himself one night after Robb corners him in his bedroom after supper, desires and promises falling off his tongue. It's unfortunate, because if Robb wasn't so exasparatingly _foolish_ about this, it might have actually gone somewhere. Not Robb's somewhere, but Theon's.

(And Theon imagines it's someplace much further than he is now, further than his closed eyes, clenched jaw, tense body, hardened cock – and it doesn't matter whose hand it is that moves, as long as it does, as long as it keeps going and going and going until his head is so far tilted back that he can see the headboard of the bed through half-lidded eyes. Much further than that, but well within reach.)

Robb's hair is splayed on the pillow next to him, slightly too long, and his skin gleams with a light sheen of sweat, a smile too wide for his mouth on his face. He's more daring than usual, his fingertips spreading over Theon's bare hip while they lie on top of the furs. Robb doesn't have to say a word, but Theon can read the elation on his face, his unreserved happiness, and perhaps something bordering on amusement, or even _affection_.

(Theon can only imagine how Robb sees him, with reddened cheeks and a mouth he should have closed a long while back. He's acutely aware of breathing in and out, the sound loud in the room. He wonders if Robb reads something akin to fear or hesitation in his eyes, because his expression softens, and his hand moves further over Theon's belly, where he watches it move to the rhythm of Theon's breathing.)

There's a cold wind reaching from outside towards their bodies, and Theon shivers at the same time Robb's nose touches his jaw. Their bodies lying side by side on the bed is far more intimate than anything that came before. Theon much prefers him on his knees, before him or below him, or anywhere else, in fact. Their feet touch, and Theon wants to shake him off, be done with it. But Robb is warm, his lips are soft, his words are sweet – what Robb wants is what he gives, and he gives plenty. Enough for doubt to settle in Theon's stomach, enough to make him give in, to allow himself to admit this is what he wants as well.

And Theon can never pretend Robb is anybody else. He doesn't yield; his smiles aren't coy; there lies no hesitation in his touch. Even underneath the furs, Theon needs no eyes to know him; whether it is the way he smells, or his unsmooth cheeks, Theon knows Robb is no wench. He stands opposite him in the yard, shares jokes with hum during supper, and strokes him to release at night. He should be the one that wants this more. Not Theon.

(Theon has always been fine by himself; his needs are taken care of, and he rarely thirsts for more, as his arms are always full and his bed is never empty.)

“You look like you're thinking about something,” Robb says close to his ear, and when Theon turns his head, he looks like he's on the brink of sleep. “What is it?” And Theon feels the beginning of a smile playing on his lips, because

(he's thinking about Robb, about the freckles on his nose and his slightly too large ears, he thinks of his body, his knobby elbows and long fingers and his half-hidden belly button, his warm feet next to Theon's cold ones, the way his nose scrunches up when he yawns. Theon can hardly think about anyone else at all, and)

only Robb is able to do that. “Just about tomorrow, and the hunt,” Theon says. He closes his eyes, but he doesn't turn away, and Robb's hold on his side tightens.

This could've gone somewhere, anywhere, unfortunately. 

(And if Robb is the fool, what does that make Theon?)


End file.
